


The piper at the gates of dawn

by ArtanisNaanie



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Rating May Change, Requited Unrequited Love, Sex, Triss is awesome and deserves better, Yennefer is only mentioned in this fic but the author loves her, all the sex is in chapter 4, no beta we die like witchers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:41:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23411083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtanisNaanie/pseuds/ArtanisNaanie
Summary: One year and a half had passed since that day on the mountain.One year and a half since the last twenty years of Jaskier life were set to flames by a pissed off Witcher.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Triss Merigold, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 37
Kudos: 393





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first fic and English is not my first language, so be kind please?
> 
> Anyway, I feel like we need some very pissed off Jaskier and confused Geralt, so here it is. Another chapter is coming as soon as I know how I want this to end, but it will have at least a peaceful ending (no warning changes)
> 
> Please let me know if you like it, kudos and comments are really appreciated!

One year and a half had passed since that day on the mountain.

One year and a half since the last twenty years of Jaskier life were set to flames by a pissed off Witcher.

Jaskier didn't deserve it. He knew that in every atom of his soul. He had been a loyal friend, a faithful companion, a helpful sidekick. Yes, in his internal musings, Jaskier could admit to himself he was more of a sidekick in Geralt's tale than a protagonist in his own, but that wasn't the point. The point was that for twenty years, the poet had followed the Witcher, by foot or by horse, come rain or unbearable heat. He had cleaned his armor and sung his prowesses, he had spied, stole, ran for him. He had fetched items from every part of the world, learned how to brew potions and mix salves, how to stitch wounds, how to mend clothes too worn to be mend. He had also learned how to shut up about things that mattered, were these political secrets, the Witcher whereabouts or his own love.

_I am weak, my love, and I am wanting._

The true mistake Jaskier made with Geralt was not the one of loving him.

First of all, that hadn't been avoidable. Jaskier always fell in love like others put on their breeches, with ease and frequency. It was just a matter of smiles, of light in a pair of eyes, of soft breasts or plush lips, of laughter or ring of voice. Jaskier fell in love like others fell in lust, sometimes just for a minute or a night, sometimes for decades. With Geralt, of course, it had been for decades. But no, that was not his mistake.

His mistake, well, the first of the two, had been to fall in bed with the Witcher. It seemed like a great idea at the time. Jaskier was a bit drunk, Geralt had not been to a brothel in quite some time, Jaskier offered because he was, perhaps, short of a marble, and Geralt took because Geralt always took what was offered, especially by Jaskier. That is why Jaskier should have been more careful with his offerings, because it was certainly not the Witcher's fault if the bard was hopelessly in love with him and that last straw almost killed him. But what a sweet death, dying choked by the Witcher's hand, full of Witcher's cock.

Alas, he did not die, even if it would probably have been a better fate. He did not die and continued, because Jaskier was nothing if not perseverant in his foolishness, to warm Geralt's bed when the Witcher felt like it.

They both had other lovers. Jaskier slept his way across the continent, for pleasure and duty, trying time and time again to fall out of love from Geralt by falling as much for someone else, but he wasn't so lucky. So, he came back, times and times again. He stayed at inns while Geralt lost himself in other bodies and cursed himself when the body was his own. Every time the flames of his desire and his love were renewed again, a love he knew Geralt didn't give back. And it was ok, truly. He was his friend and his companion, his bard and his valet, and that was almost enough.

Then came the sorceress, and Jaskier knew she was trouble. He didn't know why, or how, but he could feel it in his marrow. She was trouble for Geralt, probably, but it became soon clear how she was trouble for him, too. She stormed in their quite chaotic but subtly organized life and, in just one dance step, gained what Jaskier couldn't in almost fifteen years: Geralt's love, Geralt's heart, Geralt's devotion. Jaskier left for longer that year, returning to Oxenfurt for a cycle of conferences, then traveling from court to court. He did good coin that year, while he tried to get over the fact that the love of his life, the one love that mattered, finally fell for someone else. He, obviously, didn't get over that, but he managed to dull the pain to an ember that didn't burn him from the inside at every song he sung about the White Wolf. When he returned to Geralt he promised to himself he wouldn't fell for the same fake intimacy as before. He failed his promise.

_I am weak, my love, and I am wanting._

Then there was the second mistake, of course, the one Jaskier still beat himself on more than a year later. Jaskier knew Geralt wasn't his. Geralt wasn't anyone's but, even if he were, he wouldn't be Jaskier's. But Jaskier was Geralt's, always had been, and he entertained in his heart the hope that this, that unspoken ownership, would remain for the rest of his life.

How wrong he was.

A phrase, just one, a wish screamed on top of a mountain, was all that took to shatter his heart in minuscule fragments that were useless to make a puzzle with.

The fragments were still there, shards planted inside of his chest, swelling with every breath, when his eyes fell on the white-haired figure at the counter of this god-forsaken tavern on the short road between Oxenfurt and Vizima.

Why choose this tavern, Jaskier cursed to himself. Just a few more hours would have been sufficient to reach the University and, in it, what was home these days in which the figure at the counter wasn’t home anymore.

The bard stood, frozen, between the drinkery door and the Witcher. His feet refused to move in any direction: pride pulling him to the door, heart pushing him to the man, Jaskier just remained there where he was, feeling his pulse quicken, his eyes moisten. And then, because Fate and Fortune are cruel bitches, Geralt turned his head to the entrance and pinned him like prey with his eyes.

That startled him, enough to regain possession of his limbs and to force himself to turn and leave this damn place and why was he here again? He heard the shout of his name, but he didn’t stop. He probably wouldn’t stop until he reach the University, or maybe even the sea, and why not go farther still, to Novigrad and then more to the north? He had a nice establishment in Novigrad, the Rosemary and Thyme -yes, Jaskier had become quite a rich man-, where he could forget a bit of his troubles between the thighs of…

A heavy, gloved hand, fell on his shoulder, making him yelp just a little while extracting him from his panicky thoughts.

“Jaskier.”

He breathed. “Geralt.” But he didn’t turn.

“Hello Jaskier!” That voice... That voice came from a girl, a thirteen years old girl he frequently saw during his stays at Cintra. So, Geralt had found his surprise.

“Hello your..”

“No, no, just Ciri. I’m Ciri.” Cirilla was turning around him, as he was still frozen in place by the hand on his shoulder, pretending to not feel the warmth that escaped it and seeped in his purple vest.

He smiled at the Princess, a tiny thing, pulled like a bowstring.

“Hello, Cirilla. I’m glad you remember me.” Jaskier gathered his courage and, with a swift shoulder movement, dislodged Geralt’s hand. He still didn’t turn, though. He just didn’t want to look like he was forced to have a conversation with the last one of the royal family of a fallen kingdom.

“Of course I remember you, I loved it when you came to sing at court! How are you, Jaskier?” Behind him, Geralt still hadn’t uttered a word.

“Oh, I’m good, I’m good, I was returning to the University, see? That’s Pegasus, my horse, and I was..”

“Ciri, I need to speak to the bard.”

Jaskier observed the expressions on Cirilla’s face: a flash of annoyance, a quick compliance, a slight smirk. He sighed.

“Please, thank you, I’m sorry.” He snarked. “I’m sure he meant all that but grunts are more his style.” He said in the Princess direction.

Again with the hand on the shoulder, forcing him to turn this time. He made, with great effort, his eyes go up to meet the Witcher’s. Bad, bad idea. Geralt’s eyes were exactly as they had always been: golden irises circled black, cat-like pupils, light pouring from them from within. Jaskier’s breath hiccuped without his consent.

“What.” He could feel his voice cold as ice and did nothing to warm it. If he had been a better man he would have pretended to be happy to see his friend, pat him on the back and invited him for a drink. Unfortunately, Jaskier was not a better man. He was a torn up wound.

“It’s good to see you, Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice was a deep rumble that came up from the depth of his chest, bringing with it a sort of echo that resonated in the poet’s ears like the best music on the continent, but the words were truly offensive.

“Is it? I don’t know, last time I checked I was shoveling piles of shit.” The Witcher looked around, scowled, and used his still present grip on Jaskier’s shoulder -and why in the world was he still touching him- to drag him toward the back of the tavern, where there was, in fact, nobody. Good. Jaskier loved an audience, but maybe not for that.

“I.. I’m sorry, Jaskier.” Almost a murmur, like he was ashamed to speak the words.

“You’re what?” Was the petulant reply, because why not. Jaskier had nothing left to lose, did he?

“I’m sorry. About what I said that day.” A slight increase in volume. Better.

“Ok.”

“..that’s it?”

Jaskier, at that point, laughed. It was not a happy laugh, not by far, it was a hysterical laugh that came straight from his nose and reverberated behind his teeth.

“What’s it, Geralt? You think, what, you can throw me away after twenty years and then, one fucking year and a half later, you say sorry and everything is forgiven?”

The Witcher was looking at him with what could be interpreted as a bewildered expression on his stoic face.

“You really thought that, didn’t you? You thought ‘Well, the bard has been so fucking _easy_ for me since he was half his age, he will comply immediately like the lovesick puppy that he is, the moron’. Well guess what, Witcher? I’m done. I stood by you in plenty and want, in joy and sorrow, in sickness and health for TWENTY FUCKING YEARS, Geralt, and I never asked for anything in return, just to continue to stand by you. But that too was too much for you, wasn’t it?”

He really, really would have liked not to cry. Really. His eyes didn’t get the message.

Geralt was watching him with a scowl now, fantastic, he was going for the moral high ground, the dick.

“What are you talking about?”

“Are you this dense, Geralt, or do you just pretend to be just because it suits you?”

Jaskier crossed his arms, uncrossed them, paced, stopped, paced again, while the White Wolf visibly tried to make sense of what was said.

“I was pissed and I took it on you.”

“Well, isn’t that just the greatest insight ever!” The bard snarked. Geralt scowled harder.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Jaskier.” Oh, there he was, crossing his arms too. Defensive, then.

“That’s the fucking point, Witcher. I’ve never wanted anything from you, ever. I gave, you took, and we were both satisfied with it. Well, you most certainly were, I made do. And you know, as I walked down that damned mountain all by myself, all I could think was ‘well, Jaskier, you knew it was going to happen’ and it broke my heart, sure, and I drank myself to sleep most nights since, but I’ve never been as angry as I am now. Because you thought you could just storm in, say I’m sorry, and I was going to what, roll over? Fuck you, Witcher, fuck you.”

Jaskier was breathing hard, rage boiling in his veins. He wasn’t even pissed ad Geralt, no, he was livid at himself and at the fact that he gave Geralt the right to treat him like this. The Witcher was, for his part, still stunned and silent. He looked as if he was trying to resolve a mystery, collecting clues and putting them together until the image came out clear. His arms were still crossed against his torso, his weight on one foot, an eyebrow slightly lifted.

“We weren’t married.”

Gods, something must have happened in the last months, because never had the White Wolf been so slow.

“That’s what your take is? I know, Geralt, I very much know, but thank you for pointing that out to me in case I’ve missed it.” Sarcasm, always faithful weapon. “Why are you here? What do you want from me this time?” Jaskier felt the fight leaving him, feeling as if it was the only thing that allowed him to stand and its departure was cutting the strings of the puppet that his body was becoming.

“I was looking for you.” Geralt scowled again, as if it was obvious.

“Why? You haven’t looked for me in the last eighteen months, why now?” replied the bard with a now tired voice.

“Because I need you. With Ciri.”

Again the mirthless laugh bubbled in his mouth, his eyes to the sky in a silent prayer for the Gods to end him and his suffering right that moment.

“Fuck you, Geralt.” he spat, then turned. He was tired of this shit. With a speed that was very impressive for his age (he was bordering on fifty after all) he left the Witcher alone, went to his horse and directed his ride to Novigrad.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fuck."
> 
> Geralt didn’t even try to follow the bard. Something told him it wasn’t the smart thing to do, so he stood there, frozen, for a moment longer.

“Fuck”

Geralt didn’t even try to follow the bard. Something told him it wasn’t the smart thing to do, so he stood there, frozen, for a moment longer. 

“What was that?” The voice of Ciri echoed behind the tavern, reverberating between his thoughts, asking for answers he couldn’t give.

“I don’t know.”

“Where did he go?” She was watching around, clearly not finding the bard. He was gone.

“I don’t know.”

“What are we doing now?” 

“I. DON’T. KNOW.” He yelled, and felt immediately like shit seeing how she recoiled from him. Soon, however, the glint in her eyes lost its shade of fear to regain one of stubbornness.

“Don’t talk to me like this, Witcher! I have done nothing wrong!” 

Geralt passed a hand on his face, sighing. He wasn’t sleeping well since.. well, since Sodden and finding Ciri, so almost six months before. It wasn’t exactly the state of exhaustion that brought him to the djinn, but he was getting there. His temper was getting worse and Ciri had to call him out on his shit more often. She didn’t have qualms doing it either. 

“I know, I’m sorry. Let’s go to the horses.” 

She nodded and moved toward Roach and the other horse that still, after three months, had no name. Well, Ciri named him Horse. 

“We’re going to follow him to Oxenfurt?” She asked, mounting with a swift move. Her physical capacities had greatly improved during the last months, as did her fighting. It just... He just wasn’t enough.

“No, we’re going to Novigrad. I don’t think he wants to see me right now.” 

“Yeah, no shit.” She had picked up some very disputable language, Geralt knew, but he really couldn’t learn how to polish himself in that regard. She was clean, fed and safe, it was the most he could do on his own.

“Hum.” He replied, and she nodded because she was almost as good as Jaskier when she needed to interpret his grumbling. They set on the road to the big city, and Geralt tried to think about what Jaskier had said. His brain was foggy from sleep, though, and couldn’t very well think.  
“So, want to talk about it?” Piped Ciri from two steps behind.

“No.” Of course not. Thinking about it was already splitting his head in half, he didn’t need the noise too.

Ciri snorted. “Right, of course. So, I couldn’t avoid to listen to some of that, you know? He was loud.”

“He’s always loud.” He replied, tiredly. Roach made a sound as if agreeing. 

“Mmm. So, is he a friend? A lover? Sounded like a lover to me.” Ciri mused from the top of Horse, and Geralt winced a bit, answering only with a groan. “I’m going to interpret that as both. So, he stayed with you for twenty years and you sent him away?”

“Eavesdropping is unbecoming of you.”

“Shut up, eavesdropping is a crucial skill that I’ve perfected at court during my whole life.” She dismissed him with a flourishing gesture as if her whole life wasn’t just a drop in the ocean of time, then went on, drilling sounds in his tired brain. “Why did you sent him away?”

“I’m not talking about this with you.” He answered, final. She was a child, for fuck’s sake, he surely wasn’t talking about his relationship with Jaskier with her. What was there to say, anyway? Jaskier had been a constant in Geralt’s life for twenty years. Jaskier had been a constant in Geralt’s bed for almost as long. Geralt had ruined it. 

The Witcher knew the second Jaskier turned around on that fucking mountain that he had done a terrible mistake. He hadn’t expected that Jaskier would really go, honestly, but maybe he should have. Jaskier was not the young man that took a punch in the gut and followed him anyway anymore. He was not the young man who talked too much or sang too loud. In the years together Jaskier had become a man who knew when to talk and when to shut up, knew how to protect himself from everything, knew how to charm a crowd as well as a court, knew how to get what he wanted. Geralt had just hoped he would be something Jaskier would continue to want, but that hadn’t been the case. 

Geralt knew he shouldn’t have blamed him for his fight with Destiny. It wasn’t Jaskier’s fault, that much was obvious, but that day Geralt had been so torn, so hurt. Yennefer was a wound in his bleeding heart from the day they met; he loved her like men love the fire, basking in her warmth but knowing he would burn himself if he came too close, and still he couldn’t avoid getting too close. Jaskier, on the other hand, was the warmth of a fur on a cold night, never too hot, never too cold, never suffocating. Just comforting, just right. Just there. 

Witchers’ feelings were strange things, not easy to name. The first time they stumbled in a bed together, Geralt knew, it had been lust. But then came the jealousy, and the pettiness of finding other arms to lose himself in when Jaskier did the same, and the feeling of always walk on a rope tensed on a precipice. And then came Yen and her inevitability, and with her new feelings that still didn’t quell the ones for the Bard. But Jaskier was not the kind of man to be tamed: he was the kind of man who needs to run free, and fall in love over and over again, and leaves, and comes back. He was the man who talked incessantly on the road and never in bed, the man who shared his body because of boredom or friendship or just closeness, and Geralt knew he shouldn’t want more. Witchers shouldn’t get attached to humans, because they would have to see them die. Everybody died. 

And that was why this… scene, with Jaskier, made no sense. Nothing he said made sense. Jaskier was never his, always fleeting, always in between, always just out of reach.

“Why, you want to preserve my innocent ears?” Ciri piped, her tone light as a breeze. Another human Geralt had attached himself to. Another human he could not keep. 

“Yes” he grunted in response.

Ciri laughed, a crystalline sound. “Geralt, I’ve spent thirteen years eavesdropping, do you really think there’s enough innocence to save?”

“Yes,” he replied again, then shut up.

They arrived at the Kingfisher Inn as the sun started to set and Geralt paid for one room with two beds and a hot meal. Olivier, the owner, patted him on the shoulder with a smile.

“Witcher, it’s been a while! What brings you to our modest establishment?”

The Kingfisher had nothing modest about it. It was the largest tavern of the big city and one of the largest in all Redania, tending to the nobles as well as the rich merchants and poor laborer.

“Just passing by.” Geralt replied with a growl. Beside him Ciri had her grey cape almost closed on her face, blond strands hidden, male clothing covering her body. The ruse was necessary: Nilfgaard was stopped at Sodden for now, but Geralt knew Cahir was looking for the girl still and he was not one to be bothered by borders.

Olivier nodded and pushed two bowls of delicious smelling stew in front of them, with two ales. The travelers ate and drank, then Geralt guided Ciri in their room and closed her in. He needed something stronger than ale, and solitude. Ciri didn’t speak a word, nodding vaguely, her eyes tired and her body already soft in sleep. 

When he reached the tavern again a familiar smell titillated his nostrils, the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle. He turned his head and found the familiar sorceress looking right at him, a teasing smile on her lips.

“Hello, Triss. Fancy meeting you here.” He took her hand to kiss it and Triss smiled lightly, letting him. He sat at her table and ordered an ale, because drinking alone and drinking with someone were very not the same thing.

“Hello, Witcher. I heard you met your destiny.” Triss raised her chalice full of red wine in his direction.

“And I heard you didn’t die. That was good news.” Geralt raised his tankard too, then took a long sip. 

“And where is she? And where’s your bard?” An inquisitive eyebrow was lifted on her beautiful features, and Geralt almost choked on his ale.

“She’s upstairs” he replied when his throat was clear, “and he’s not my bard.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure he and half the continent disagree with you on this but suit yourself.” she shrugged, sipping her nectar with a satisfied expression.

“Why.” He growled, the encounter with Jaskier too fresh in his mind.

“What do you mean, why? Geralt, the man’s been singing love songs about you for the last twenty years, did you think it was a secret?” Again, the eyebrow.

“His songs are not always about me,” he growled again, annoyed now. 

Triss, in response, just snorted.

“Hmm, yes, sure. Have you heard the last one he wrote? He sold it to the University, it’s been sung everywhere in the last year.”

“I hadn’t seen him in a year and a half.” He replied through gritted teeth. He needed something much more strong than ale.

“Oh, well, this can explain that, then. Well, it’s a beautiful song. It’s called “Her sweet kiss”. A hit, truly.” She smirked, a hint of mischief in her eyes. 

Geralt had, in fact, heard the song, sung by random bards in his journey from Cintra, in anonymous inns or crowded markets. He never really paid attention to the lyrics, though, because music, when not sung by Jaskier, always seemed dull in his ears.

“What are you doing in Novigrad, Triss?” He changed the subject, hoping she wouldn’t see how uncomfortable the topic of Jaskier had made him feel.

“I’m here to shop, then I’ll be returning to Vizima, where I’m to meet with a friend of ours. She’s well, by the way, and hope to see your charge soon.” The inflection in the sorceress tone left no room for deflection, and he nodded. He needed Yennefer’s help with Ciri anyway, and their relationship was smoother since he found her half-burnt on the battleground. They had laid boundaries and were trying to transform that pull they felt toward each other in something less consuming and more enriching. They weren’t easily successful, but it was better than the ten years prior.  
“I’m going to bring her to Kaer Morhen for her training. You both should stop by sometimes, we will need your help.”

“And I think we will provide it, in time. Back to the bard now..”

Geralt groaned and called for some alcohol, something that would burn his stomach and his brain and make him forget this conversation.

“Leave it, Triss. I’m not in the mood.”

“I knew you had some kind of a fallout, but I guessed it would be solved now. Isn’t it why you’re here, to see him?”

“I’m not in Oxenfurt, am I?” 

“Well, you wouldn’t find him in Oxenfurt, since he’s in Novigrad.”

Geralt groaned, again. Just his fucking luck.

“I met him this morning, between Vizima and Oxenfurt. He.. he wasn’t happy to see me.”

Triss laughed, loudly. Geralt resisted the strong impulse to throttle her, knowing she would likely kill him before his fingers had the time to catch her neck.

“Really? Why? What did you say?”

And then, because Geralt sometimes felt as pathetic as the other humans, and because sometimes even Witchers need a friend, and because his fucking bard wasn’t with him anymore, he spoke. He told Triss everything, what he said on the mountain, what he said in the morning; he said what happened in twenty years of friendship and companionship, the times he thought he understood Jaskier and the time that he didn’t, the times they were together and the times the bard left. When he finished his throat was hoarse and he drowned his glass a little too quickly, forgetting he hadn’t just ordered another beer. 

Triss looked pissed, then sad, then angry again, then puzzled, then had the worst expression a human face could sport: pity.

“So, summarizing: he’s been in love with you for twenty years and thought you fucked him out of boredom and you’ve been in love with him for twenty years and thought he fucked you because he’s a slut. Am I doing ok?” She asked, with an almost softness in her tone, a softness Geralt was not equipped to deal with.

“He’s in love with everyone, Triss, you know that.” He answered, hating the bitterness in his voice.

“There is a difference between falling in love with everyone and being in love for twenty years, Witcher. One doesn’t erase the other, even if, knowing Jaskier, he probably tried.”

Geralt snorted, a blur of emotions he wouldn’t name battling in his chest.

“He talks so much, all the fucking time, it would have slipped, Triss. He would have said, at some point, he would have..”

“He would have protected himself from you, Witcher. Isn’t what we all do, we who know you?”

Geralt felt almost warm under her now steely gaze, regret at pouring his heart in front of someone who had given her heart to him, once. But she didn’t recoil in front of his shame and shrugged. 

“We protect our hearts from you, Witcher, because you can crush them with a single word. He offered everything he could, while keeping his secret from you, singing it from the top of his lungs in every inn on the continent at the same time. You can’t fault him for that, or for refusing to forgive you after a half-assed apology and the request for him to follow you again just to be your daughter’s teacher!” The sorceress hissed, making Geralt lean a bit more on his chair. He wasn’t scared, just cautious. 

“What should I do?” he bowed, finally, at loss for other words.

“He’s at the Rosemary and Thyme, it’s his tavern. Brothel. Establishment. Whatever. Sleep on it, first, and when you see him, talk, Witcher. With actual words. Our lives are too long to fill them with regrets we could avoid.”

At that, Triss stood and left without another glance. Geralt sighed, drained by abuse his tongue had endured during the discussion: he didn’t recall having talked this much in his entire life. He paid for the drinks (his and Triss’, obviously) and climbed up the stairs to find his room. He set his things how he liked, checked on the peaceful slumber oh his Child Surprise, and tried to sleep. He was, once again, unsuccessful.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What’s good?” he breathed, a murmur in the space between their lips.
> 
> “That you love me too.” Geralt grumbled, and the air that left his mouth came to rest on Jaskier’s lips, a caress, almost a promise, one Jaskier couldn’t believe.

Fuck the Witcher, fuck him to hell and back, Jaskier thought as he pushed Pegasus to a gallop. He avoided the road to Oxenfurt and pushed further to Novigrad, arriving at the Rosemary and Thyme in good time. He nodded in Zoltan’s direction, seeing that his business partner was tending the bar and managing the ladies (and the guys, they were an equal opportunity kind of establishment) and run through the stairs to his room under the roof. Only there, locked into his private space, he allowed himself to crumble. 

He felt like his chest was split open and his heart beaten with a thorny stick. His breath came ragged, tears and snot running on his face in ugly crying, the kind of crying that was too much for an adult man. He didn’t care, though, and let his grief and anger overcome him like a great tide and pull him under, in the abyss of sorrow.

Jaskier was a poet, an author. Sorrow, pain, grief, unrequited love were his friends, the source of his talent, even when he tried to hide them under jokes and crass lyrics. Happy people didn’t make good artists and Jaskier had always drank with gusto at the source of his unhappiness, hiding it to the world behind a curtain of flashy clothes and dazzling smile.   
His love for Geralt, that pit of despair and self-loathing and elation, had been fodder for his art since he met the Witcher. His wealth was entirely due to that, his fame was entirely due to that -the one as an artist and the one as a Witcher slut, Jaskier was aware of his reputation-, his very being had been constructed around his unrequited love for Geralt. 

The bard had not written a single song since the mountain and finishing Her sweet kiss. He never sang it either, selling the rights to the University so that it could be sung by every student across the world. He didn’t care anymore if people butchered his lyrics or his music, he was too wrung out to care. Instead he taught classes, wrote dark poetry and managed a brothel. His lute stayed discarded in his house in Oxenfurt and only the fact that it was an elvish object protected it from being ruined by abandonment.

He didn’t know how much time had passed in his bout of depression. Priscilla came in, once, to bring him food and drinks and offering him a fuck, but Jaskier took the former and refused the latter: he wasn’t in the mood to keep his dick hard, and wasn’t that a pity to end them all. 

When night came and the sounds of the tavern rose to his room, a mixture of raunchy songs and sounds of pleasure, he undressed, cleaned himself a bit with a wet rag to erase the traces of tears along his face and buried himself under the soft covers of his bed. Exhaustion embraced him and pulled him under the blissful envelope of sleep.

When he woke up in the morning he felt slightly better, as he didn’t immediately start crying. Anger pulled at him again, filling him with vital force where pain only left him drained.   
He was angry at himself for allowing Geralt to think he would come back as a lovesick puppy, yes, but even more he was angry at Geralt who thought about searching him only when he needed him to help raise Cirilla. The Witcher had not looked for him because he missed him, or to make things right, or even just to see if he wasn’t dead, no. He had looked for him because of what Jaskier could do for him, and wasn’t that just the sum of their entire relationship? Jaskier was a tool for Geralt, a tool to rebuild his reputation out of the Butcher of Blaviken, a tool to warm his bed at night, a tool to teach his charge things the White Wolf couldn’t. But Jaskier was tired of being a tool. He was a person, damn it, and he didn’t want to have his feelings stomped on again after years of it. He accepted it all, his experiences and his pain, but refused to be used again: he was too old and a lot wiser than he had been, now. 

He asked for a bath and aggressively washed himself, redressing with his more ostentatious clothes, plastering a fake happy expression on his face, and descended the stairs to the Rosemary and Thyme lobby. There he greeted the girls who were cleaning the remains of the evening feast and served himself some mulled wine to go with some bread and cheese to break his fast. His hands still trembled a bit and Jaskier laughed a bit at that, feeling grateful that he didn’t have to play his lute anymore: the result would have been terrible.

He tried to lose himself in the tavern’s numbers, writing to suppliers and paying invoices, feeling pretty well about the amount of money his prostitutes were making for him. He distributed the salaries, careful to be more than fair in the share of the benefits, and talked to his employees about the clients. Owning a pleasure house was a very good way to always be in touch with the latest gossips, and Jaskier had built a life on gossips and how to make them work for him. While the bard Jaskier traveled the continent singing about white-haired Witchers, the spy Dandelion made a fortune serving different courts, listening for secrets and selling them for good coin. The only secrets he never sold were Geralt’s, loyal to his friend and lover even with his heart broken.

As he was listening to a very enlightening discussion Alyssa had with the Count of Navarette about some shady business going on at the auction house, the door behind him opened. Without turning he yelled “We’re not open yet, come back later!” and signaled Alyssa to continue, but her wide-eyed expression finally registered to his mind. He turned to scold the customer that was frightening his employee but a shriek came out of him instead. 

Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, the Witcher, stood in front of him, in his establishment, a familiar scowl on his face as he took stock of his surroundings. He was wearing almost the least amount of clothes Jaskier had seen him in, just the leather breeches and a black shirt, and was removing all his weapons from his person to lean them on the wall next to the door. Behind him, with a look of open curiosity, stood the Princess of Cintra, a warm smile gracing her lips. 

At Jaskier inability to talk, or move, Cirilla pushed Geralt in his direction, saying she promised to be careful and to stay put, and immediately asking Alyssa and Bianca if they had something to eat to spare for her. The ladies promptly acquiesced and guided her towards the kitchen, leaving the two men alone, standing in front of each other, still and silent.

“How dare you..” Jaskier started, bile rising up his throat, an all-consuming rage blinding his vision. 

“Jaskier, let me talk, please?” Geralt interrupted him, a weird softness in his tone the bard didn’t know he even possessed.  
Jaskier took a big breath, steeling himself against the onslaught of emotions that menaced to put him under again. He nodded, crossing his arms to his chest and lifting his chin, trying to convey coldness and apathy and probably missing the target by several miles. 

“Can we do it somewhere more private? Ciri has the bad habit to eavesdrop conversations that she shouldn’t hear.” Geralt said, the ghost of a smile on his lips. Jaskier found himself almost mirroring it, thinking about the young, curious girl with blonde hair, but schooled his features once again before nodding and guiding the Witcher toward his room, yelling his destination to the girls. 

Once they arrived in the luxurious room Jaskier called his own he resumed his defensive stance, not quite ready to listen to Geralt but fairly incapable to do anything about it. It was going to happen and Jaskier could just brace himself against it.

Geralt paced for some time as if he needed to organize his thoughts. His movements were, as they always had been, graceful and feline, not a single muscle used without meaning. His back was straight, his shoulders large, his bottom.. well, his bottom was beautiful as ever and there was nothing Jaskier could do about the want that coursed through him. He never could do anything about it. He was weak. 

“Are you actually going to talk, Witcher?” he asked to mask his turmoil.

“Yes. Yes I am, Jask.” The nickname was a low blow, but the bard stayed silent. Some minutes passed again and his patience was starting to decrease at a noticeable speed. He sat at his desk and occupied his hands tidying it a bit, using the occasion to hide his composition notebook under a pile of other documents.

“I am really sorry, Jask.” Said the Witcher when he finally found his voice.

“You said that already.” Replied the Bard, gesturing at him to go on.

“Let me talk, damn it.” Growled Geralt, visibly uncomfortable.

Jaskier bit back a reply about how that was the first time Geralt really wanted to talk to him and nodded slightly, crossing his arms again, as if he was protecting his core from a physical blow.

“I’m sorry about what I said on the mountain. I’m sorry about everything I ever said that has made you suffer, and I guess there’s a lot to be sorry for. I’m sorry for the time I punched you and for the times I told you to shut up. I’m sorry for saying I didn’t like your music. I’m sorry for making you think I was looking for you just because of Ciri. I’m sorry and I didn’t mean any of that.”

Jaskier stood frozen, the deep grumble of the Witcher’s voice washing against his still form. Never, in all the time they had spent together, Jaskier had heard Geralt apologizing for anything, and now he was apologizing for everything. Well, everything he knew of, which was as much as Jaskier could expect. But Geralt continued.

“I was not looking for you because of Ciri, or, well, not only because of her. I missed you, Jask. I missed you so much, worse than all the times when you left before.”

“You.. you missed me? Why?” Jaskier asked, dumbfounded. For all he knew his presence at the Witcher’s side was tolerable at best and an annoyance at worse. Never Geralt had given him a sign otherwise.

Geralt’s bitter laugh was startling as were his words.

“Why? Because if it was for me, Jask, you’d never be farther than two steps from me at all times.”

“You never said that.” The poet hated how his voice sounded so small, a tiny, trembling thing that didn’t even resonate in the room.

“Well, there’s a lot of things we never said to each other, Bard, isn’t it? Like why you felt the need to leave all the time, or why you never said a word when you were in my arms..”

Jaskier blanched, all the blood leaving his face at once, leaving him feeling lightheaded. It couldn’t be. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was the only thing to say, really, grasping with blunt nails at the illusion he had entertained for twenty years.

“I didn’t know either, but I had a very enlightening conversation with an old friend yesterday and things start to make sense now.”

Jaskier tried to suffocate the tide of jealousy that rose when he heard Geralt talk about a friend when he himself had never earned the term in Geralt’s words.

“Wha... What makes sense?” He made himself ask, trembling with a fear that was settled deep in his bones. 

“Why did you leave, Jaskier?” Geralt asked, pinning him with a stare that left the bard hot and angry and scared all at the same time. It was the stare of someone who knew too much, who saw under the surface, and Jaskier didn’t know if he could avoid it this time. He tried anyway.

“Well, people to see, things to do, you treating me like the shit on your shoes..” He tried for nonchalance and missed it. Years of perfecting his mask and it was slipping like drops of water on stained glass.  
“And yet you came back, again and again. Why?” The inquisitive glaze was still in place, menacing to leave the bard bare in the only way he never was with the Witcher. Jaskier stood, a clumsy movement full of repressed energy, and found himself going all-in.

“Because I love you, you dumb fuck! I’ve loved you forever and even if you barely tolerate me I keep coming back for more because I’m a certified idiot and an emotional masochist, and I keep leaving to preserve a little bit of sanity, and I keep returning because I can’t muster enough sanity to fucking leave you for good, and the one time I finally find the desperation to do it you waltz back in my life to ruin it once again!!” He shouted, uncaring about the people who probably could hear him down in the lobby or, more probably, out of his door. Prostitutes were not discreet people.

Geralt’s reaction was not what he was expecting. He was expecting a scowl, a disapproving expression, not the smile that was gracing the Witcher’s lips with a light that he rarely saw in all their years together. Geralt was not the smiling type and seeing his expression -happy? was it the first time he was seeing Geralt happy? how did that happen?- startled Jaskier more than all the words that had been said until then. He took a step back, stumping against his desk, and Geralt, seeing him cornered, stalked in his direction with purposeful steps. Gods but the man was beautiful, even more, when he moved. 

“Good, that’s good.” the Witcher hummed, a low growl coming from the deeps of his chest. He stopped just shy of touching him, looming on him like a fucking vision, white hair shining in the light that shone through the windows, golden eyes burning into his blue ones, body towering over him. Jaskier could not, for the life of him, repress his body reaction. He never could.

“What’s good?” he breathed, a murmur in the space between their lips.

“That you love me too.” Geralt grumbled, and the air that left his mouth came to rest on Jaskier’s lips, a caress, almost a promise, one Jaskier couldn’t believe. 

“What?” His eyes were torn between the Witcher’s eyes and his lips, his hands were gripping the edge of the desk with such force his knuckles were probably white, his breeches were too tight, he was having troubles filling his lungs. Geralt’s scent prickled his nose, a familiar smell of cloves and cinnamon, a spicy, heavy, encompassing thing that was one of Jaskier’s many, many weaknesses.

“I love you too, Jask.” Geralt replied simply as if these words weren't shattering all of Jaskier’s reality, burning it to the ground to be rebuilt again with another shape, changing who Jaskier was in his core to fit in this new landscape the bard didn’t even know it existed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Together?"
> 
> "Yes, love, together."

“I love you too, Jask.”

Gods, how sweet did the words feel on his tongue as he spoke them finally. Geralt watched as Jaskier took them, mulled them, absorbed them. He watched as the seas in Jaskier’s eyes rose in tides and settled back, as his pupils dilated, even more, black eating blue. Jaskier’s eyes had always been beautiful, a deep color that changed with his mood or his clothes, expressive in a way Geralt never tried to interpret too much because he was afraid of what he would read in them. Now, though, the Witcher basked in their subtle changes, in the crinkles that ornated them at the sides and betrayed the bard’s age just as much as the grey strands in his still mostly chestnut hair. The years had been graceful with his lover, passing over him without marking him too much, but he had lost his boyish features long ago, maturing in a handsome man that made Geralt’s core quiver just as much as he did for the younger version of him, a long time ago. The never sated hunger was gripping at him, but he refrained from touching his bard, feeling they weren’t quite there yet. Jaskier confirmed the feeling when he finally found enough footing to talk again.

“How, why, when?” He babbled, as if incapable to process the information that Geralt knew was new to him. 

“All the time, Jask. All the fucking time and you really didn’t know.” Geralt longed to press his lips against the bard’s gaping ones, to bury his nose in his neck and breathe the smell of chamomile and fresh-cut grass that always poured from the man in front of him. Still, he refrained.

“And you didn’t say anything.” Murmured Jaskier, a small, disbelieving thing.

“You neither,” answered Geralt on the same tone. They were standing on the edge of an abyss very different from the others they had already crossed. 

“I had my reasons.”

“So did I.”

“And now you don’t?”

“Now I have different reasons.”

Their noses were almost touching now, their breaths mingling in a mint and wine saturated atmosphere.

“What about Yennefer?” Jaskier asked, recoiling a bit as if to leave more space for the question to live between them. 

“What about her?” the Witcher was confused. What about the sorceress? She had no part in their shared story.

“You love her. You love her in a way you never loved me.” The trembling in Jaskier’s voice was heartbreaking, shining lights on the bard insecurities, leaving them bare for Geralt to witness and, maybe, to heal.

“Yes. I love her like a man who loves the sun, and I burn myself every time I try to worship her. I love you like a man loves the moon, basking in its light and thankful for it brightening his path.” He replied with as much honesty and imagery as his capacities provided. Jaskier’s smile was small, but there. It felt like a victory.

“Oh, Witcher, since when you’re the poet?” the Bard exhaled, straightening again, bringing his lips almost in touching distance. Geralt was about to drown in want. 

“Since you left me and I missed you too much.” He smirked, a wave of reassurance washing over him. Jaskier laughed, a small sound, but a laugh nonetheless.

Then two hands were resting on his face, blue eyes shining with light and unshed tears were boring into him and the softest lips Geralt had ever kissed found his. The Witcher sighed in the kiss, allowing his hands to circle the waist of his lover, bringing him closer and closer still, wanting to melt with him, making them both a new person.

Jaskier hopped on the desk and opened his legs, making a space for Geralt to invade as their kiss turned from a sweet reunion to a hungry battle of lips, and teeth, and tongues. Geralt groaned his pleasure in it, slipping his hands on the meaty ass of his companion to bring him against the noticeable bulge in his pants. He felt Jaskier grinning and thrusting against him, so he lifted him as if he weighed nothing -and truly, he did- and carried him to the enormous bed on the other side of the room, where they landed in a messy tangle of limbs, the bard laughing with his neck arched, the white expanse of his throat offered for the taking. And Geralt took, leaving his marks once again, peppering the skin with red love bites and beard burn, while his hands started to undress the bard, careful not to rip the expensive-looking doublet. 

Then, the most incredible thing happened. Jaskier had always been a silent lover, and even if it was uncharacteristic of the usually talkative bard, Geralt never thought too much of it. Now, though, Jaskier was singing, as if a muzzle had been removed from his mouth. 

“Gods, Geralt, I missed you so much, your mouth, your hands, your cock, all of you, I miss all of you every time we’re not together...” 

Jaskier’s voice was ruined, breathless, in a way Geralt had never heard it in the twenty years they’d been together. He smirked, continuing his path along the bard’s torso, disrobing him with efficient fingers trained with time. He found without difficulties the spots that made Jaskier moan, the ones on his neck, the ones on his ribcage, the inside of his elbows, the softness under his belly button. He stopped to remove his shirt and both of their boots and pants, leaving Jaskier in only his stockings and nuzzling in his thigh where the fabric met the skin. 

The bard, for his part, was leaning on his elbows to watch the proceedings and still babbled away.   
“You’ve always looked so good between my legs, love, yes mark me because I’m yours…”  
Geralt applied himself in sucking a big bruise at the juncture between thigh and pelvis, stopping only when the pleased moans turned pained grunts and still, he licked it and nuzzled it and reveled in the hands that were thrown in his hair to guide him where Jaskier really wanted him. It was easy, then, to take Jaskier’s dick in his mouth, licking and sucking and finding again all the things that made his lover’s breath hitch, his fingers grasp at his hair, the muscles in his abdomen and thighs quiver. 

“Turn love, turn around, let me..”

And so the Witcher did, arranging them on their side, both facing the other’s cock, and resumed his previous occupation. The first touch of hot tongue on his head made him shiver and groan and he couldn’t stop his hips from thrusting slightly, which made Jaskier laugh. 

“Hmm, Geralt, I don’t really know if I can do that, I’m a bit out of practice.”

“I don’t care, Jask, just put your fucking mouth to good use.” Geralt grumbled, letting go for a moment of the dick in his mouth to nuzzle again against his bruise and lick at the bard’s balls. Jaskier, on the other hand, just laughed harder, then resumed his work, wrapping his cock with his lips and tongue, licking at the slit, fondling his balls, in a practiced dance they had done many times before. 

There was no fumbling or insecurity between them, just the fire in their loins that was reaching high, both focusing on the other’s pleasure to stifle their own just a little longer. When his jaw and his neck began to ache, Geralt slipped a finger between Jaskier’s cheeks, finding his hole easily, rubbing it delicately first and then a little bit more forcefully. Jaskier stopped his ministrations to let go of a deep moan and the Witcher caught the moment to swallow around the bard’s cock and push his finger inside. With a shout, Jaskier filled his mouth of bitter-tasting come, a flavor Geralt never thought he could miss so much and yet, here he was, swallowing it and licking everything clean.

As soon as the aftershocks of his orgasm let go, Jaskier returned to Geralt’s dick with even more enthusiasm, and it was just a matter of very little time until the Witcher erupted in his lover’s mouth, drowning Jaskier’s moans with his own. 

They stayed for a moment, heads resting on thighs, breaths ragged, hands wandering until they found each other and squeezed. 

When the Witcher sat and glanced at Jaskier, the bard had a blissed expression on his face but new tears at the edges of his eyes. Geralt crawled on him, kissing his eyelids reverently, making soothing noises, settling on his side and cradling him against his body, snuggling against his neck, petting his hair. After a moment he felt the bard relax, returning the embrace.

“So, where are we going now?” Jaskier asked, a small voice right in his ear, the feeling on which left goosebumps on his skin.

“We’re staying here a couple of days and we’ll decide together.” Geralt hummed, stroking his lover’s back with calloused hands.

“Together?”

“Yes, together, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endings are hard, but here's mine. Thank you for reading, for your kudos and comments, those make me very happy. I hope you enjoyed my little angsty fic and I hope I'll write some others in the future, this pairing gives me life xD

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!
> 
> Check out my other Witcher fics:
> 
> \- the [Muse 'verse](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1752481): Modern setting, from hook-up to lovers, rated E, Geralt wears kilts, angst with a happy ending. <20k  
> \- [Calligraphy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25365418): 5k ficwip challenge, College/University, rated E, inspired by art, fluff, 5k  
> \- [In the kitchen of a keep in the mountains](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25910944/chapters/62970847): canon universe, found family, food as a love language, internal monologues, character study, rated T, 12k  
> \- [ There was only one bed and it was uncomfortable](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26283094): 5+1 Crack, rated E, 4k  
> \- [Wish you were here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26579083); canon universe, porn without plot, rated E, 5k. Geralt walks in on Jaskier.. again.  
> \- [Of food, friendship and apologies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27954674); canon universe, ep 6 fix-it, rated G, 2k, not or pre slash. Food is a love language.  
> \- [As we lie here in our bed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28527864): canon universe, porn without plot, somnophilia prompt for the Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo, rated E, 1k  
> \- [Black in front of my eyes, bark against my back](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28616832): canon universe, porn without plot, outdoor, clothed sex, rated E, <1k  
> \- [Things that bump in the night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28617060): pre canon universe, porn without plot, Eskel/Geralt, Kaer Morhen, rated E, <1k  
> \- [I quite like seeing you all tied up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28617300): canon universe, porn without plot, Geraskier, soft bondage, rated E, <1k  
> And you can come yell at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ArtanisNaanie) too!


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